


crack his ribs open

by joeri



Series: roleplay inspired [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Mikglenn, Car Accidents, Gautier Brothers, Gen, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Sibling Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 01:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20986526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/joeri
Summary: Sylvain believes that Glenn died, believes that the car is missing, believes that Miklan will never step foot again in their home but doesn’t believe that he’s a murderer and sometimes he isn’t entirely sure why.[inspired by a modern day fe3h roleplay server]





	crack his ribs open

**Author's Note:**

> this piece of writing is inspired by a modern day fe3h roleplay server that im currently writing in. the context is that miklan was thrown out of his family for being gay after a car accident with his boyfriend glenn lead to his death, and sylvain isn't given all the details.
> 
> it's very niche but it was written for the rp group, so take it for what it is.
> 
> this is a given but pls no negative comments. its a modern day thing where miklan isnt quite as bad as in canon. if you dont like the idea of making him sympathetic or shipping him thats valid, you dont gotta read it (peace sign emoji)

Sylvain believes that Glenn died, believes that the car is missing, believes that Miklan will never step foot again in their home, but doesn’t believe that he’s a murderer and sometimes he isn’t entirely sure why.

Miklan who pushed him into a sewer and slammed the manhole cover back on, leaving him in the drenching, grotesque, rat infested dark until Felix found him. Miklan who held his face under the water of the tub until his face turned purple, calling it a game, getting angry when Sylvain doesn’t think it’s fun and when Sylvain doesn’t do the same to him. Miklan who tore the heads off of his dolls and joked about hanging himself with a scarf that Sylvain knitted.

Miklan who wore the scarf anyways. Miklan who snuck Sylvain Halloween candy from his stash after dinner. Miklan who had warm hands, bruised and cut and bled the same blood.

Miklan wouldn’t do this but that’s not what he’s being told.

Who should he believe, though, when he’s not being allowed to come downstairs when the cops are talking to his parents? When there’s screaming and fighting and he can’t make out words only voices, only intonations and amongst all of the vibrations going through the house, Miklan’s is the quietest. _Why won’t he scream at them?_

Who should he believe, when Felix calls him a murderer, when Glenn is dead and Rodrigue decidedly looks at Sylvain funny when he visits. Who should he believe, when Miklan isn’t at Glenn’s funeral, when the house is a frailer thing without him in it, when Miklan hasn’t come back. _Why hasn’t he come back?_

His parents tell him Miklan lost it. His parents tell him what he knew all along: Miklan was with a boy. Sylvain already knew. Sylvain didn’t _care_ and he thinks he knows why but it’s scary to think about. It’s easier to focus on something tangible, imperative: the truth. Because Glenn might be dead but the car is gone. Why is the car gone?

“He stole it,” they say, but when he finally finds Miklan, he’s in the parking lot of a van renting company, watching him hot wire one. “I’m gonna live inside it for a while,” he says.

“He killed Glenn,” they say, and they make it sound like it’s the next step in an easily predictable sequence: boy falls in love, boy fucks boy, boy kills boy in cold blood and lives with a scar to tell of it. Sylvain can’t tell what makes him sicker to recall, the memory of walking in on the two of them when he was fourteen or the the way Miklan’s twisted up face, gnarled like barbed wire shook and squeezed at the sight of Glenn’s art book.

One of them, at least. Sylvain brought it with him. Wanted Miklan to have it.

“He wanted to kill you too,” they say, and yet Miklan snatches the book from him with less aggression than he did on his eighth birthday, when Sylvain was gifted the snowglobe Miklan had wanted and he shattered it, tossed it at the wall, stomped on it and got cuts all over his feet as the glass tore through his sneakers.

“He wanted to kill you too,” they say, and yet Miklan delivered nothing more but an empty stare as Sylvain lied and lied, said he dropped the globe, said Miklan mistepped, said it was his fault.

And they told him to watch his step.

“Miklan was just using Glenn,” Felix says but Sylvain watches the way he handles the book with such care, like an artifact before holding it to his breast and demanding that Sylvain get the fuck away from it, _look, you smudged the charcoal, this was one of his favorites, you can’t do fucking anything right_, and Sylvain has never seen him more irate on someone else’s behalf.

And Sylvain can still see sharpie trailing up from Miklan’s chest as his ruddy burgundy button-up is torn down the middle, where Glenn drew love into his skin and made it somehow stick.

Glenn performed magic and he isn’t even alive anymore for Sylvain to ask how he’d done it.

There’s blood everywhere Miklan walks from the glass of the globe and from every wound, every word that their parents ever said, and all Sylvain can do is blame himself, for the shattering, for the glitter everywhere, so pretty and meaningless, for the smeared charcoal.

“Done with all of you parasites,” he barks, the words clipped as short as his patience. “Don’t look for me, don’t _fucking_ cry about it.”

He says this knowing Sylvain can’t anyways, knowing that by now all of his tears have dried up when his brother is cussing at him, cutting his hair, pushing him down stairs and kicking his arm the moment it’s dressed in a sling.

Most of all, he can’t even win. Miklan’s pissed if he cries, the little pathetic baby. Miklan’s pissed if he doesn’t, and just stares at him with sadness, with pity, _he doesn’t want your fucking pity_.

Doesn’t even want Sylvain’s love. It feels secondary to what he was robbed of. Love won’t feed his stomach now that he’s ousted. It won’t give him a place to stay and it won’t bring his boyfriend back.

They say he killed Glenn, but he’s marked for life and Sylvain wants to know who carved the giant target on his face if not himself?

“Who did this?” Sylvain says.

“You fucking know what did this,” he spits, and a glob dots the side of Sylvain’s cheek. He wants to gag. He wants to get mad. “I want nothing from you. I want _nothin_’ from _nobody_.”

Sylvain wipes his cheek and his voice is hoarse, deeper, sounding more like Miklan’s own every day. _Does it hurt? Knowing they’ll accept this from me?_ It’s as if with every passing day of his transition, Miklan’s grown more bitter. Accepting and bitter. Aching and bitter.

_I know you’re not running away, they threw you out._

“I don’t know the truth,” he says. “I don’t believe them,” he says and Miklan pauses in whatever stage of hot-wiring the van he’s in. “You wouldn’t do that.”

It’s a cold October night and Miklan says in a low baritone, “no, I wouldn’t,” and Sylvain can’t get him to crack his ribs open any more than that.


End file.
